


Seams

by RatsVacuum



Series: Die with Honor [2]
Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post-Halo 3, Pre-Shadow of Intent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 10:30:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18386633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatsVacuum/pseuds/RatsVacuum
Summary: The Shipmaster sighs, a guttural echo reverberating around the training room. The deactivated sword slips between lifeless fingers. He still remembers. He still remembers it all.





	Seams

Honor. It was ingrained into his flesh, it flowed in his veins, unyielding and faithful. It was the force which let his heart beat, his muscles contract, his mind _believe_.

Honor. It weaved the fabric of his very being.

It still does, he thinks, despite all that has happened. The Great Schism has no doubt been a tribulation for all involved. Centuries of faith, devotion, and purpose destroyed over the course of two torturous months.

Meaningless death upon meaningless death. Loyalties challenged. Covenant soiled. Great Journey forsaken.

Forsaken.

The Shipmaster sighs, a guttural echo reverberating around the training room. The deactivated sword slips between lifeless fingers. He still remembers. He still remembers it all.

 … “ g r e a t  j o u r n e y “  
 … “ w h e n  t h e  t i m e  c o m e s “  
 … “ d i e  w i t h  h o n o r “

 **Lies**. All of it. There is no Great Journey. There is no time to come. Where then, where was this honor-

"Who-"

He hears the sliding of doors as a hand flees to his unused sidearm. An overcautious habit, honestly, as he was in a place of no danger. But overcautious was not a word in Rtas’ vocabulary. After all, **horrors**  always strike when you least expect them.

But there was no bullet lodging itself into his cranium, no plasma bolts to his back. No stench of sweet rot and necrosis invaded his nostrils, nor did he hear ear-splitting unholy shrieking as the mutilated flesh of an arm pulverized his bones.

Nothing.

Rtas 'Vadum clicks his remaining mandibles. Frustration. His hand, trembling ever so slightly, moves down to pick up the hilt of his deactivated sword, gaze focusing everywhere but the shadow of whom had entered his abode unannounced. His back may be facing the doorway but-

"Blademaster," he says, more growl than greeting. 

"Shipmaster!" 

Rtas can already feel his eardrums starting to ache. 

He finally turns and his eyes meet those of Vul 'Soran. There is a brief moment of silence, uncharacteristic for the two supposedly bravado drunk warriors, before the aging Sangheili-ai at the doorway enters the training room at last.

"ETA?" Rtas asks.

"We are  _still_ nearing Rahnelo," replies the Blademaster as he retrieves his pair of swords from his belt. "I'd say we have another four hours or so until you may begin fretting over the navigators as always." His mandibles part, teeth baring with a hint of mischief in his eyes. "-Just like a Kaidon's wife would over her childlings."

Rtas scoffs at the amusing taunt. Finally, an opportunity for much needed distraction ripe for the picking, yet the Shipmaster returns his own spent weapon to his thigh. "Better my fretting than your howling I think. The room is yours, 'Soran."

Vul raises a brow, his disappointment obvious, and steps to the side. His mandibles move to speak before closing again with a sharp exhale through his nose.

The Shipmaster and his second-in-command have had this dance before. He may be old and past his prime, but whatever he now lacks in power and reflexes is compensated by decades of experience. 

And like all good Sangheili who have endured the chaos of war, any minor habit or ritual that serves as a hint, a _tease_ , elucidating the tearing at a soul's seams does not easily escape his notice.

But like all good Sangheili who should  _flourish_ in the chaos, such hints and sightings of them are never spoken of.

And so, withholding both tongue and an almost  _fatherly_ concern, he watches the Shipmaster stride past-his gait, stiff but always steady-and exit the training room into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted from an old starter from my old RP blog, Shiipmaster. Present tense is hard :^(


End file.
